


Dear Mycroft

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Depression, Gen, Holmes Brothers Childhood Study, Mycroft-centric, Suicide, Underage Drinking, Why can't Mycroft look Baby Brother in the face anymore?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-01-24
Updated: 2012-01-25
Packaged: 2017-10-30 02:05:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/326565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He didn't know whether it was all an elaborate test or a halfhearted suicide attempt. He wouldn't put either one past Sherlock, and it could very well have been both.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Mycroft walked. He didn't think he'd ever been so cold in all his life. His feet seemed to be made of lead and his blood pounded noisily in his ears. His lungs burned with each breath. The darkness had eaten away at the corners of his vision and he prayed he wouldn't fall and break a limb. The boy was heavy in his arms, and Mycroft found himself thinking back to carting his girlfriend playfully across her yard. Stupid, he thought. That was a summer afternoon. She hadn't run off in the middle of the night, into the woods.

And unlike Sherlock, she hadn't been a dead weight.

"Stupid," he repeated out loud. If Sherlock were awake, he could hook his arms around Mycroft's neck and ease the pain in his stiff limbs. He hadn't noticed it at first, but after stumbling across the footbridge and nearly snapping his ankle, he moved more warily. The aforementioned bridge was a favorite of Sherlock's. Only a few years ago he used to stand at the edge try to catch fish with a thread of dental floss.

"You stupid little fucker," Mycroft said to the air. He started when his younger brother moaned weakly into his coat. "Sherlock."

"Mycrof'." The boy's voice was cracked and clumsy. "You..."

"Noticed the m-missing bottle," he provided, struggling for breath in between words.

Sherlock shuddered violently and pressed his small cold face into Mycroft's coat. He was becoming heavier with each step. Mycroft swore once, and once again for good measure. His fingers fumbled with his brother's coat. He hefted him up; wrapped him more tightly in his arms. "You little bastard."

They were almost in their own yard. Just a few more minutes and they would be out of the grove, he guessed. Then all that remained was the garden. He bent his head and immediately the scent of his mother's preferred sweet wine met his nose. He quickened his pace and became increasingly aware of Sherlock's slowing, trembling breaths.

The minute Mycroft had arrived, he knew what he was going to do. Sherlock had resisted weakly, trying to stumble off in the other direction, but Mycroft had thrown him to the ground. He had grabbed his brother's damp hair in one hand and pried open his small jaw with the other. Sticking a finger down his throat was relatively easy, despite Sherlock's halfhearted clawing at his arm. The smell had been worse.

"You'll just forget, won't you?" he practically spat. But he could still hear the desperation in his own voice. When he'd noticed the amount of liquor that had disappeared from the bottle in his brother's hand, he'd practically been ill himself.

Mycroft gasped. His feet had finally hit the wet soft grass of the lawn. The house loomed up in the black, dark save for a few windows. The door was unlocked, as he'd left it, and the sudden warmth and sweet odor of the main hallway made him dizzy. He practically dropped his brother onto the floor, taking care to prop him against the wall. Sherlock was out cold. His skin was so white that Mycroft lost his train of thought for a moment. Then he thrust himself into the next room, grabbed the telephone with numb fingers, and dialed.

While speaking with the responder, he flew back into the hallway to make sure his brother hadn't decided to choke on his own vomit. He hadn't. "He was awake till a few minutes ago," he told the lady on the other end of the line. "He...knew who I was."

She assured him that an ambulance would be there soon, and told him to calm down. Only then did Mycroft notice that his hands were shaking. He hung up and let the receiver clatter to the hardwood floor.

He then decided to support Sherlock's small, twelve-year old head against his knee. It seemed like a good thing to do. The silence pressed down on his ears, which still ached from the cold. Was it his fault? The note had read: Dear Mycroft. Out in the woods, across the bridge. Come join. S.

He'd forgotten to add, 'Trying to drink myself to death'. Mycroft didn't know whether to be angry or to cry. He didn't know whether it was all an elaborate test or a halfhearted suicide attempt. He wouldn't put either one past Sherlock, and it could very well have been both. He grabbed his brother's hair and tugged; hard but not too hard. His head merely lolled to the edge of Mycroft's knee.

The elder Holmes brother, at that moment, was convinced that he was at fault. Sherlock was his responsibility and his alone. He'd gone wrong. Somewhere.

When the paramedics banged on the door, Mycroft started so violently that he nearly let Sherlock's body slip from his grasp. But he didn't have the luxury of being careful. Mycroft let go. He heard the gentle thump of his brother hitting the ground but didn't bother looking back. He flew to the door and wrenched it open, nearly collapsing as his muscles balked at the task.

The woman's face was ruddy, and Mycroft stared at her, his mind numb. "Where is he?" she asked firmly. She and her partner, a small man, obviously inexperienced, stepped around him. The woman's face was impassive and almost unconcerned as she looked down at the boy.

They set to work, and Mycroft could only linger in the background, shivering and watching. "I'm his guardian," he offered lamely, his voice tiny. So they took him with them.

The gentle beeping and buzz of machinery had nearly put Mycroft to sleep. He was sore, exhausted, and sick to his stomach, but the room was dark and warm. So he curled himself up against the chair and tried to keep his eyes closed. Sherlock's breathing was even. He'd woken up earlier, Mycroft had been told, and he'd been all right. At least that's what he gathered from their words. Sherlock had been looked after, and he would be all right.

When he finally mustered the courage to go to his brother's room, Sherlock had been fast asleep.

Before settling into his chair, which looked quite ancient and worn, Mycroft had leaned against the hospital bed and looked into Sherlock's small, sharp face. He almost began to cry, but couldn't bring himself to allow it. Instead, he touched his lips briefly to his brother's forehead. The skin felt cool and dry against his lips, and Mycroft quickly pulled away. Cool, yes, but not cold. Not nearly as cold as he had been in the woods.

"Why November?" he asked the air. It was so damn cold.


	2. Chapter 2

Mycroft sat straighter in his chair when he heard Sherlock begin to murmur under his breath. His muscles ached and his stomach felt shriveled and empty. He wished desperately that he had a mint to chew on.

Sherlock's eyes were glassy and pink. If Mycroft didn't know better, he might've guessed that Sherlock couldn't see, as if a sightless film impaired his vision. But no. Mycroft rolled his shoulders and inched to the edge of his chair.

"Sherlock," he said coolly. His voice sounded uninterested and tight even to himself.

The boy inclined his head toward the noise. His eyes rolled toward Mycroft, slowly. "You're here," he said, his voice hoarse. "Sorry."

"Sorry?" Mycroft hissed. He couldn't bear to sit so he got to his feet, his heart pounding mercilessly in his ribs.

"Yes. I'm sorry..." Sherlock paused to inhale, but ended up with a rattling cough. He gagged once, and Mycroft was a hair away from yanking on the cord for a nurse. But his brother shook his dark head quickly and adamantly, so Mycroft let his hand fall.

"I'm sorry," he continued, "That I scared you."

Mycroft wasn't sure how to respond. His tongue felt like lead in his mouth. "You could have died," he said weakly. "You're not stupid. You would've died."

"Maybe."

"MAYBE?" he yelped. Sherlock gave a small jerk and Mycroft immediately dampened his voice.

"Maybe? You would've. If I hadn't gotten to you...you little bastard," he added venomously. "You did it on purpose."

Sherlock grimaced and looked down at the white sheets. His pale fingers grabbed a corner and aimlessly worked the fabric. He did not speak, so Mycroft moved to the foot of the bed and continued to stare at him. He almost wished he could pierce his little brother with his gaze-it would be like pricking him with a pin. Look at me. Look at me. No? I can make you. But he quickly banished the thought.

"Mr. Holmes," remarked a low voice from the doorway. Both brothers turned to regard the visitor. He wore a milky white coat and his hands rested comfortably in his pockets. "I'm Dr. Hamish Watson; could you come with me for a moment? How are you feeling, Sherlock?" he added brightly.

The boy nodded wordlessly. "All right." Dr. Watson held out an arm and beckoned Mycroft into the hallway. It was around six in the morning, and there was only a subdued buzz of activity around the nurses' station.

"You're not his guardian," he began. "Are you?"

Mycroft sighed and smiled thinly. "No. My mother is."

"I'm afraid that since you're only eighteen we're going to need to contact her. We tried, but she didn't answer. And your father wasn't listed at all." He paused and leaned against the nearest wall. His eyes were soft, and Mycroft opted to play nicely with him. "Where is your mother, Mr. Holmes?" He beckoned a certain nurse, who brought Mycroft a clipboard with the form he'd filled out earlier.

He took it from her stiffly and wrote down a number. "In Paris," he said, handing it over. "Since I was old enough to drive I've been looking after my brother, Dr. Watson."

"Is there anyone else we can contact? An adult relative?"

"I am an adult."

"I know." Dr. Watson looked sympathetic. "But it's protocol, Mr. H-"

"Call me Mycroft," the elder Holmes bristled. "My father isn't here."

"It's protocol, Mycroft. I'm sure you're perfectly capable of looking after Sherlock, but what happened...I'm afraid we have to keep him here until your mother comes back or appoints a proper guardian."

"How long do you need to keep him?"

Dr. Watson took a step toward him, lowering his voice. "It depends. If I go in there and ask him, will Sherlock tell me whether or not this was an attempt to take his own life?"

"No," said Mycroft plainly. "He won't."

"Was it?"

He looked up at Dr. Watson and shook his head. "I don't know." Suddenly he felt miserably inadequate as a brother. His stomach turned and he pressed his fingers to his forehead, trying to quell the ache in his skull. "I just..." he broke off, and his throat felt as if it were closing.

"Try to reach the mother," Watson said to the nurse. He placed a heavy hand on Mycroft's shoulder and told him to calm down; to take a few minutes. Then he had to move away to look at another chart.

"Dad?" a small voice inquired. A small boy around Sherlock's age had slid up to him. From the sound of him, he'd already hit puberty. Older than Sherlock, then. "Sorry to interrupt, but can I have some money for the cafeteria?"

"John," said Dr. Watson quietly, reaching into his pocket, "Don't go getting any sweets." He handed over a few bills and shooed him off. Mycroft watched him plod off down the hallway and out of sight.

"My son," offered Dr. Watson, noticing Mycroft's cool gaze. "I had to bring him to work today."

A few minutes later, Mycroft had excused himself. After checking to see if Sherlock was still awake, he hadn't been able to remain in the room. His brother's even breathing gave him the only excuse he needed to escape. What if he's faking? It didn't matter. The nurse had an eye on him; he'd made sure of that.

He made his way to the cafeteria for a cup of tea. He couldn't leave the hospital; that was out of the question. I'm not that cruel. There were a few residents milling around sluggishly. A few others were there as well; friends and family of patients, no doubt. A woman stumbled past Mycroft, wiping at her tired eyes with a napkin. She obviously hadn't changed her clothes in over a day.

Mycroft also happened across John, Watson's son. He was sitting at a table with an orderly, chewing and brooding. He spied the eldest Holmes brother and smiled shyly, with nothing short of sympathy in his eyes. Mycroft guessed that he was at least a few years older than his brother; perhaps 14 or 15. His short stature and boyish face had hidden the maturity that Mycroft now noticed.

By the time he'd bought his tea, however, John had vanished, and only the orderly remained. Mycroft hadn't thought to take a few napkins with him, and the cup was too hot to hold in one hand for long. He wandered through a few wards, just breathing and thinking. Well, feeling more than thinking.

He felt guilt. Wave after wave of sickening regret and remorse. He should have spent more time with him. He should have been warmer to him. He shouldn't have avoided going home every day after school. He should have made certain that Sherlock had a web of support, to keep him from falling. He'd left him alone in that place with the housekeeper nearly every day. Even worse, he'd left him alone with their mother.

When Mycroft had been home, he studied. Day turned to night and night turned to blackness, and Sherlock would play outside, running around the yard in his eye patch and black boots. When it got dark he would come inside and romp around his father's old study, flipping through ancient volumes. Some days he would sit in front of the television, munching on biscuits. Sometimes he even practiced his violin. He involved the cat and occasionally shot questions at the housekeeper, but he had given up on Mycroft.

"What can I do now?"

"Phone a friend, Sherlock."

"I don't want to."

"Go across the stream, then."

So Sherlock went.

Now it was far too late to call him back. Mycroft swallowed a mouthful of tea too quickly and it burned his throat going down. He swallowed it with a grimace and a small groan. Suddenly uninterested, he stopped at the nearest restroom to pour the remaining Earl Grey into the sink. Then he thought better of it, and continued on his way to Sherlock's ward. Before reentering the room, he stopped a nurse he recognized.

"Can I give him tea?" he asked.

She smiled gently and nodded. "All right. But he should drink it slowly. We're going to give him something to eat soon, also."

Mycroft thanked her curtly and went in.

Sherlock's eyes were closed, but the pulse on the monitor told Mycroft that he was awake. "I brought you some tea."

"What sort?"

"Earl Grey."

"Your favorite."

"Would you like some?" He put it on the bedside table. Sherlock moved carefully to accommodate his IV drip. He sat up shakily and reached for the cup, but Mycroft met him halfway and placed it in his small hands. "Be careful, it's hot."

Sherlock eyed him. "Why haven't you left yet?"

The question stung. "I'm your brother. They're trying to reach Mum, but...Maybe I'll give them another number. I'm still on holiday, remember?"

Sherlock took a sip, and continued to examine his brother. "You're still frightened," he said slowly. The thought seemed to stir something in him. He shifted his body and grimaced. "You."

Mycroft said nothing.

**Author's Note:**

> I do want to make a small note about characterization. It's quite difficult to pin down, especially when dealing with child/young adult versions of 'grown-up' characters. However, even Sherlock's demeanor is easier to guess at than Mycroft's, whom we still don't see enough of. I did my best with what Gatiss gave us! :3


End file.
